The Temporary Detective

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “Okay, okay!”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Isobel bit her lip nervously.

  “Do you want to stay? Do you feel safe?” James asked.

  “I don’t have much choice. The police told me I had to come back.”

  “What? Why? I thought you said they asked you back because they liked your work,” James said.

  Shit, thought Isobel. She’d blown her own cover. “They did. Doreen asked me to stay for the afternoon yesterday.”

  “The dead woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly ask her for feedback now, can I?”

  “Are you telling me you think I killed her so she wouldn’t tell you I’m a lousy secretary?” Isobel asked, her voice rising.

  “That’s not what I meant. I—”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “Nobody living from the bank officially asked you to come back—is that right?”

  “No, but,” Isobel remembered Detective Kozinski’s words, “they’re going to need a secretary.”

  “It doesn’t have to be you.”

  “Got anything else for me?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Then I may as well stay. It’s like what my mom says when a plane crashes right before you’re supposed to fly. I’ve been pre-disastered.”

  James cleared his throat. “I have to talk to Felice Edwards. If they really want you to stay on, you can decide whether to take the risk. In the meantime, don’t do anything—”

  “Stupid? You could have a little more confidence in me,” Isobel snapped. She slammed down the phone and stared at it moodily. She couldn’t figure out if James was worried for her—or for the people around her.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”

  Isobel looked up and saw Frank Lusardi, his BlackBerry clutched in his palm like a security blanket.

  “Isobel Spice,” she said, instinctively straightening her blouse.

  “Right. Come with me.”

  As she got to her feet, he wagged a reproachful finger at her, just as Doreen had the day before.

  “And no personal calls on the job.”

  James peered down the hall to make sure Ginger wasn’t on the prowl. Then he shut the door to his office, slammed his right fist into his left hand, and cursed as loudly as he dared. He should have thought beforehand about what he wanted to say to Isobel, because everything had come out of his mouth completely wrong. He was supposed to be cool and professional. Instead, he’d acted like a total asshole.

  What he really wanted to do was tell Felice Edwards that Isobel had another assignment and couldn’t stay. He’d lose his commission, but was that really worth keeping Isobel in a potentially dangerous situation? He massaged his temples and tried to think. It was possible that a long-term placement at a company under police scrutiny wouldn’t even look that good to Ginger. Then again, companies were always being investigated for one thing or another. But there was a big difference between corporate paper crime and murder. If there weren’t, he wouldn’t have gotten so worked up just now.

  And what on earth made him say that about her cute little ass? He didn’t do white girls as a rule, and Isobel was pretty lily. She was exactly the sort of overprivileged goody-goody who needed the world to knock her around some before she would be interesting. Still, there was something about the way she said his name. James. She sounded like a Bond girl, and he had to admit that as white as those babes generally were, they were pretty hot. Not that Isobel would ever be interested in an alcoholic, ex-quarterback Columbia dropout who was struggling to stay sober and keep his job. Even if he was attracted to her—which he wasn’t.

  Part of his job was to look out for his employees, he reminded himself. He’d be just as worried about anyone else. He should pull her out of there no matter what she or the police wanted.

  He picked up the phone, about to dial Felice, then set it down again. Isobel wasn’t any more likely to get into trouble—correction, get him into trouble—at InterBank Switzerland than anywhere else. Pre-disastered. The idea had its appeal.

  If he’d learned one thing about Isobel in his few interactions with her, it was that opposing her was a recipe for aggravation. Fine. If they wanted her to stay, let her. He’d confirm it with Felice, then file Isobel as an open-ended engagement at InterBank Switzerland and forget about her. He only had to check in with the long-termers every two weeks. Once it was settled, he could pass by Ginger’s office for a change and tell her he’d converted a half-day into an open-ender. She’d like that.

  The phone rang. Recognizing his home number, he snatched it up.

  “Hey, baby doll,” he drawled.

  “Who the hell is Isobel Spice?”

  SIX

  Frank Lusardi paced back and forth in front of Isobel as if he were a lawyer interrogating a witness.

  “So you want to be an actress?”

  “I am an actress,” Isobel replied, as politely as she could. Her father, a history professor with great respect for the theater but none for the people in it, insisted on putting it the same way. Having to make the distinction always got under her skin.

  “But you don’t have an acting job right now?”

  Isobel wasn’t sure if he was trying to belittle her aspirations or simply confirm her availability. She decided, for the moment, to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “No, but I haven’t been in New York very long.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Milwaukee.”

  Frank gave a dismissive harrumph. “Never been.”

  “Oh, it’s great! The lake is gorgeous, and there’s a symphony and two opera companies, and several Equity houses, and all sorts of neat experimental theaters.”

  “Then why aren’t you there?”

  Isobel’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Because it’s not New York! It doesn’t have Broadway.”

  “And that’s where you’re heading?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve had my Tony Award acceptance speech written since I was eleven.”

  Frank wandered over to the window, which looked out onto Madison Square Park. Isobel shifted on the leather sofa in his roomy corner office and checked him out. He was of medium height and build with darkly handsome Italian features, but his eyebrows projected a certain sternness, and something about the set of his mouth made her think he was not quite as smart as he wanted to be.

  “The police are going to be here for a while,” Frank said, almost to himself. He turned around to look at her. “I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  Why, because you did? Isobel thought involuntarily.

  “No, of course not,” she said.

  “I know the police had their reasons for asking you to come back today, but would you be willing to stay until we hire someone permanent?”

  James’s warning flashed through her mind, but Isobel pushed it away. A job was a job, and she’d fought hard enough for this one in the first place. Besides, she knew that if she walked away now, she might never find out what really happened to Doreen Fink.

  “Sure.”

  “What kind of experience do you have?”

  Isobel smiled stiffly. Here we go again, she thought.

  “Phones, typing….” She shrugged. What the hell? “Actually, I don’t have any. I’ve spent the last four years in college.”

  “You understand what this department does?”

  “Nobody’s really explained it,” she admitted.

  “We provide support to the procurement department, which supports IT purchasing and disbursements. They support the bank’s overall IT function, particularly the back shop. That means we deal primarily with vendors, but only those whose businesses don’t support the larger strategic functions of IT involving online banking, equities and media tie-ins.” He looked expectantly at Isobel, who had lost him after the first “support.”

  “Seems pretty straightforward,” she said.

  �
�Plan to be here at least through next week.”

  “Thanks. Um, do I get a lunch break every day?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does it have to be at lunchtime?”

  “I suppose not. Why?”

  “I was hoping I could leave a little early today instead of taking lunch. There’s an audition I want to go to.”

  Frank peered at her, as if he were trying to decide whether or not she was pretty enough to be an actress.

  “If it’s all right with the police, it’s all right with me.” A sudden smile lit his face. “Hey! I know that one. ‘It’s the right place in the wrong time…’” he sang.

  Or the right song with the wrong lyrics, thought Isobel.

  She gave a pained smile. “Something like that. But you know what they say.”

  Frank stopped singing. “No, what do they say?”

  “Don’t give up your day job,” quipped Isobel.

  Frank’s face hardened. He picked up a stack of papers from his desk and handed them to her.

  “Type these,” he said curtly and turned back to his computer.

  Damn, damn, damn, thought Isobel, as she left his office. When will I ever learn?

  Nikki Francis was at her desk by the time Isobel returned.

  “Welcome back,” Nikki said.

  “I appear to be the new Doreen, at least through next week.” Isobel plopped down in her chair with Frank’s papers in hand. “Let’s hope I have a longer shelf life.”

  “You know what they say,” Nikki said.

  Isobel nodded. “I know, ‘Don’t give up your day job.’”

  “I was going to say, ‘A temp job in hand…’ but it amounts to the same thing.”

  Isobel read down the list of names and phone extensions pinned to the corkboard above her desk: Frank Lusardi, Stan Henderson, Paula Toule-Withers, Conchita Perez, Nikki Francis, Doreen Fink, Temp. She took a pencil from the desk, crossed out Temp, and wrote her name. She briefly considered crossing out Doreen’s name as well, but thought better of it.

  “It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to for a change,” Nikki said, clacking away on her computer keyboard. “Have you met everyone yet?”

  “I’ve met Frank and Stan. Oh, and Paula.”

  “Yeah, she’s a piece of work. What about Conchita?”

  “I saw her in the conference room when we were waiting for the police, but she wasn’t here when I got in yesterday, so we never really met.”

  “Come on, then, I’ll introduce you.”

  Isobel followed Nikki back to the area where the offices were. Conchita sat at a desk in the center, dissolved in tears. She hadn’t been there a moment ago, when Isobel left Frank’s office.

  “Conchita?” prodded Nikki gently. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s those detectives,” Conchita said, unloading her nose into a tissue. “Asking personal questions. And I don’t know how to answer them. Jesus knows I can’t be untruthful.”

  “Why would you be untruthful?” Nikki asked.

  “They asked me how I felt about…about Doreen…and I couldn’t…I had to tell them the truth. And then they got nasty.” Conchita’s fingers moved to her neck and pulled nervously on her silver and emerald cross.

  “Only because everyone else is probably lying and saying that she was their best friend,” Isobel said.

  Conchita peered at her. “Who are you?”

  “This is Isobel,” said Nikki. “She was here yesterday. She’s filling in for Doreen. For now.”

  Isobel gestured at Conchita’s necklace. “That’s a very pretty cross.”

  Conchita’s hand clamped around it protectively. “I’ve worn this every day since my first communion. Jesus knows, I can’t be untruthful,” she repeated and burst into fresh tears.

  “She’s very religious,” Nikki said unnecessarily, as they returned to their desks. “Doreen was always particularly horrible to her. Hard to know why.”

  Isobel leafed through the papers Frank had given her. She hoped his grammar was better than Stan Henderson’s.

  “I guess I’d better get going on these,” she said.

  “And you probably want to check the voice mails,” Nikki reminded her.

  Isobel copied down several messages, including two from Frank’s wife. She was glad she’d missed those calls. Nikki picked up her own line when it rang and, giggling delightedly, turned away from Isobel to continue her conversation in hushed tones. Isobel passed along the phone messages, typed up Frank’s memos (a few grammatical quirks, but nothing like Stan’s) and stole a glance at the new issue of Backstage, which came out on Thursdays. After a longing glance at the Equity stage auditions, she sighed and turned to the non-Equity section. Someday she’d get her union card, but for now, she’d have to concentrate on jobs she had a shot at and build her résumé. She immediately spotted a few that looked appealing. She opened her desk drawer and felt around for the scissors that had been there the day before.

  “Looking for these?” Detective Harvey appeared out of nowhere, with Detective Kozinski at his side. He was holding up a plastic evidence bag.

  In the bag was a pair of maroon-handled scissors, their tips darkened with dried blood.

  Isobel eyed them for a moment before she spoke, her voice even. “Anybody could have taken those scissors from my desk.”

  “Yes, but your fingerprints are the only ones on them,” Detective Harvey said.

  Isobel’s heart skipped a beat. “When I got in yesterday morning first thing—I had never been here before, remember—the phones were ringing off the hook, and I was pulling things out of the drawer like crazy trying to find some paper.”

  “And did you find any paper?” Detective Harvey asked.

  “No. Doreen gave me a memo pad.”

  “Did you put the scissors back or leave them out on the desk?” asked Detective Kozinski.

  “I’m pretty sure I left them out.”

  “Did you notice at any point that they were gone?”

  “I—I don’t remember. Look, my fingerprints will be on everything in that drawer. And besides, where were they on the scissors? What part?”

  “The handles.”

  Isobel silently cursed herself for always holding scissors correctly. “Okay, but not like I was actually using them. Not like I was cutting,” she said.

  “They were plunged into Doreen’s chest,” Detective Harvey said. “No cutting required.”

  Isobel squirmed in her chair. “I told you, yesterday was my first day here, the first day I ever laid eyes on Doreen or anybody. My first temp job ever! I just graduated from college. I’m not even really a secretary. I’m an actress!”

  She caught the glance between the two detectives.

  “Musicals! I do musicals!” she protested. “Everyone knows singers can’t act!” She threw a pleading glance at Nikki, who had hung up the phone and was watching the exchange with a guarded expression. “Look, anybody could have taken those scissors,” Isobel rushed on. “And I’ll tell you this. If I were going to kill someone in an office, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to use the scissors from my own desk!”

  The two detectives were still staring at her.

  “You’re an actress?” Detective Harvey asked, finally.

  Isobel took a deep breath.

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “I want to be an actress.”

  SEVEN

  “James, I’d like you to meet Mike Hardy from Dove & Flight Public Relations.”

  Ginger propelled forward a short, stocky man who looked like a rook on a chessboard. “Mike and I are going to have a bite of lunch and discuss how Temp Zone can support his needs,” she continued, smoothing the rounded neckline of her clingy cashmere sweater.

  “All right, then,” James said, unsure how he was supposed to respond. Ginger slid her arm under Mike’s elbow and steered him out to the elevator bank. Obviously, the man was a potential new client, but “support his needs”? He sometimes wondered just how Ginger made her business dea
ls.

  He always relaxed when Ginger was out of the office, which, he had learned, she rarely was. Anna took the opportunity to sneak out for lunch, and the other recruiters all withdrew into their offices to do whatever it was they didn’t dare attempt with Ginger underfoot. James left his office door open to enjoy the cross breeze from his small window. He was just deciding how best to waste his time when the main office buzzer sounded.

  His immediate, ingrained reaction when the two detectives flashed their badges was to hold his hands high above his head, but a secondary instinct thwarted his first, and he thrust them into his pockets instead.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Detective Harvey and Detective Kozinski. We’d like to speak to James Cooke.”

  “That’s me,” James said, careful to keep his voice as free from the twang of the ‘hood as possible. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “We’ve got a few questions about Isobel Spice.”

  Sending up an ardent prayer thanking God for supporting his needs by removing Ginger from the premises, James led the two detectives to his office, where he gladly sacrificed the cross breeze and shut the door.

  “Please,” he said, gesturing for them to sit down. They didn’t. James hovered uncertainly before deciding that he would feel more powerful behind his desk.

  “You sent her to a job at InterBank Switzerland on Wednesday?” Detective Harvey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She said it was last minute.”

  “It was. I was registering her as a new employee when the call came in. It seemed like a good way to try her out. It was only supposed to be a half-day, phones and light typing.”

  “Have you worked with InterBank Switzerland a long time?” Detective Kozinski asked.

  “I’ve only been at Temp Zone a week, but I believe they’ve been a client for a number of years.”

  “Who’s in charge here?” Detective Harvey asked.

  “Ginger Wainwright. She owns the company. But she’s not here right now,” James added quickly.